From The Journals Of Samuel Stoughton, 3, 28, 1840
The histories will not speak of these events. The ages will know nothing of what took place following the trials. I would be deemed crazed for the mere mention of these claims. Which is why I am writing them here in the hopes that they will someday be found. Unless the sins of Salem were forgotten we need not speak of them. It is most assured that the scholars of days to come will be well versed in them. Thankful am I as I wish not to dwell on those actions, for it brings my heart much sorrow. What you are about to read may sound bizarre. Some would say insane rantings of a delusional mind. I may be in fact crazed, that is not for me to speculate. I may only put forth that which I view with my own eyes, and as of late my eyes have seen many strange events.
The oddities as I will call them began in late summer of last year. I was outside my home splitting wood for the fire when I heard a noise from the east. One of the local women was screaming. Laying down my axe I wiped my brow and rushed over to see what had happened. As I approached I saw the woman trembling and frantic, a large mound of flour at her feet the dark burlap sack which once had contained it now empty in her hands. As I listened I heard her tell that she had felt a tug on the bag, then its contents spilled out. Immediately eyes began to roll, Most believing her to have gone mad. As the crowd dispersed I moved in and began helping her clean up the mess, using another bag to collect what of the flour had been salvageable, little as it was.
As she thanked me and left, I picked up the sack and noticed something odd. At the bottom, there appeared to be a large tare, as though someone had sliced something sharp through the material. Staring at the frayed cut I began to suspect that there had been more to it than the woman fabricating a tale. Within hours of the incident however, the interest had died away, and life in our little village had returned to normal. Some days later another odd occurrence came to light.
I had just left the local apothecary, whom I had supplied with some fresh herbs she had asked me to forage for her from the forest around the village where I had been cutting down logs from which to fashion some new furniture for the church. As I past the chapel on my way to the local tavern, I thought it best to stop and call upon the priest, to inform him that his order will be completed earlier than expected, assuming he would be delighted by the good news. As I approached the door, an unusual sound echoed from the large chamber within, and as I stepped closer it immediately became clear that the source was a rather animated conversation between the priest and the sheriff. The former was telling the officer that he had been attacked in his sleep, saying that he had been scratched, slapped, and choked for the past three nights. When asked if he had seen the attacker, he said that it had been too dark, and by the time he had managed to light a candle the perpetrator had vanished. Agreeing to look into the matter, the sheriff left and I approached the priest. He told me that he could not think of anyone that could have wanted to harm him. He was a just man of God and denounced sinful ways. Before I left the chapel he expressed his fear that the attacker would next come after his wife or children. By the time I had reached the tavern, word had already spread, no doubt that the cleric’s wife had confided in an unreliable friend. “He’s gone mad,” laughed one man, slamming an empty tankard on the table in front of him. “Too much inside air, shut up in that Chapple with all that burning wax, fumes are starting to get to his head.” Slurred another. The barkeep, who was usually silent during such discussions, grunted derisively as he wisely neither agreed, nor disagreed with any drunken remark.
The nightly assaults on the priest soon ceased, and nothing more was spoken of them. As the days past I began to believe I had fallen victim to lunacy, but that did not last. Not a week had past when I saw the blacksmith running full force through the center of town with his son on his shoulder. It was strange to see this polite man knocking people aside without so much as an apology. Wishing to render my aid, and partly curious, I followed him and saw him rush into the apothecary’s shack. As I entered, I heard him telling the old woman that his son had taken ill, breaking out in boils and was now feverish. After close examination, the woman told the father she would keep the boy there for treatment. As he left I heard her mutter about a strange shaped scratch on the boy's chest. Stepping forward, I peered at it and froze in horror. The mark was a scar, appearing to be that of a pentagram, a symbol of dark magic. I was now sure of the fact something sinister had fallen upon the town of Salem. What it was I knew not.
After a few weeks under the old woman’s care, the child began to recover, though he was left with many ailments, chiefly the inability to use his legs rendering him crippled and unable to follow in his father's footsteps. A month had passed, and the image of that pentagram on the boy's chest had printed itself in my mind, dominating every waking moment and haunting my dreams. Despite its impact I dared not investigate, out of fear I would be thought crazed. That was until the events of the morning of December 15th.
It was a cold winter morning and a heavy blanket of snow covered the ground. As I emerged from my home I heard a shrill scream from the south of town. Running I did my best to push through the knee deep snow to reach the woman I'd heard. Reaching the center of town I was joined by the Sheriff and Magistrate, both of whom were alerted by the same spine-chilling scream. Together we reached the woman first and were stupefied by the scene our eyes had alighted upon. There laying half covered in snow dressed in his bed clothes was the former Magistrate, one John Forest, dead and half frozen and half buried in the snow. We dug him out, and it was clear he had been there a while. His lips had turned blue, and his large open eyes, rolled back in his head, made the image all the more gruesome. Leaving the Magistrate to comfort the woman, I helped the Sheriff carry the body to the town mortuary. Neither dared to speak as we trudged through the snow, the body stiff as the board we carried it on, the linen sheet peppered with frost as it fell softly on an otherwise quiet and oblivious town. As we walked back together, we spoke of our shock. The Sheriff wondering just why Mr. Forest had been outside dressed in only his bed clothes. If he had intended to use the outhouse he would have certainly dressed warmly. Adding that the outhouse had been behind the house, I pointed out that Mr. Forest had been in good health and there was no reason for him to have gotten stuck mere feet from his front door. At the town center I bid the man fair well and headed back to my own home.
The last grain had fallen that night, the incidents were no longer incidents, and whom ever had caused or lead to this tragedy must also be related to the mark upon the blacksmith’s boy’s chest. I do not proclaim bravery, or valor, I dare not interfere in the dark arts, nor as a matter of fact, anything related to magic. For I know the price of such crimes, the sacrifice of one’s soul in exchange of power. Power, which would lead to such sinister acts as these. The reward, if it may be called thus, is too high at the cost. I leave this script therefore, to a braver generation so that they may perhaps lift this dreadful curse from this once peaceful place. The darkness has consumed this town, its inhabitance may not escape it, though many have tried. Hung were their bodies found, or burnt or drowned or flailed. In time, we understood. The offenders must remain, to be tortured not by pain, but by fear. The constant fear, the sudden snuffing of candles and whispers in the dark, footsteps in the snow made by invisible feet, and the shattering of windows in a windless, stormless night. This is our punishment. This is our hell. These are the consequences, of the sins of Salem.